


Bedspread

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (Bumping) Ugly Duvet Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the (Bumping) Ugly Duvet Challenge, inspired and kindly orchestrated by Mazarin221b.</p><p>See the parameters and other entries at http://mazarin221b.tumblr.com/post/131765328270/bumping-ugly-duvet-challenge or check the tag #(Bumping) Ugly Duvet Challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedspread

 

“I don’t recognize a single cultural reference in this room, John. Not a one.” Sherlock sighed. “Seriously, what the _hell_ is this?”

John lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “What do you mean? It’s a quilt, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood transfixed. “It's not a quilt, it's a hideous polyester monstrosity. But why are the men all…naked?”

“Because they’re wrestlers. Well, ‘wrestlers,’” John says, making quotation marks in the air.

Sherlock cocked his head, still staring. “Is that why they’re, um, massive?”

 John quickly suppressed a smile. “Sherlock, do you know what the WWF is?”

 Sherlock sniffed. “Of course not.”

 “Right.” John took a deep breath. “Well, it’s basically staged fighting. The wrestlers have characters they play, nice or evil or what have you. They have managers and allies and archenemies, and run around puffing out their chests and making offensive statements and throwing tantrums, and actually, Sherlock, this is sounding more and more like you every second.”

Sherlock snorted. “I don’t have a manager.” Before John could answer, he quickly added, “You do not want to mention my brother in this moment.”

 “I was _going_ to say Mrs. Hudson.” Both men chuckled for a moment before John continued. “So what were you into, when you were a lad?”

 “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 “Didn’t you have a, you know, thing you liked? A TV show, or a book series, or, I don’t know, a band you followed or something?”

 Sherlock stared at him, seemingly mystified. “No. No, not at all. Why, did you?”

 “Of course. I liked science fiction, Doctor Who and Star Wars and that type of thing. Had action figures and comic books, big poster of the Tardis taped up over my bed.” John waggled his eyebrows. “Big poster of Farrah Fawcett rolled up under my bed.”

“Hmmm.” John looked up just in time to see a sad frown quickly replaced by a disdainful sneer. “I had the periodic table and a map of London on my walls. The bedding was navy blue cotton.”

“Of course you did. You knew the thread count even then, didn’t you?”

 “Yes, it was…oh, you’re teasing me now.”

 “I’ve been teasing you for some time. Do keep up.” John tilted his head, considering the quilt. “You know, I might have been into the WWF, had it been around when we were boys. All that macho stuff, smashing furniture, throwing men around…good stuff, that.”

 Sherlock nodded. “Mmmm. I did some boxing.”

John was surprised. “Really?”

“Yes. My parents wanted us to be _social_ , so they forced us to join clubs one summer. Mycroft beat me to the Chess Club.” Sherlock’s voice took on a wistful tone. “I was pretty good, actually. I had a good reach, and I could predict my opponent’s moves after two or three swings. I rarely got hit.” Sherlock laughed, then, remembering. “It was when I first got interested in self defense. Self preservation, really. I was insufferable then. What a prat.”

 John laughed. “Sorry, was that humility? I’m going to need you to step outside and send my flatmate in, please.”

 Sherlock smiled back. “You, of course, played rugby, until all the other boys outsized you. Then it was football. You were good at it.”

“How did you…Right. Yeah. But I’ll have you know, I was also a fair wrestler.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise, and then took in John’s feet, hands, knees, shoulders, neck, and torso in rapidfire glances. “You were not.”

 “I was!” John bounced on the balls of his feet for emphasis. “I was pretty good, actually.” He grinned. “I was _scrappy_.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, really.” John drew out the last word in mock disdain, before sadly shaking his head. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, as ever, you see, but you do not observe.”

“You can claim it, but I doubt you can back it up. As a youth, I, myself, excelled in pastry making and fashion design.” He shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Prove I didn’t.” He turned to examine a poster of a brightly dressed, improbably complected youth holding a beach ball. 

John narrowed his eyes. “You did say this family were on extended holiday, right?”

“Mmmm. Yes. And...”

Before he could finish his thought, Sherlock was tackled on to the bed. John landed next to him, and started moving in immediately for a half-Nelson.

“Prove I didn’t, my arse,” John ground out, his teeth clenching as he worked to complete the pin. “You want proof? I’ll give you proof. You’re going down, skinny boy.” John gave a convincing growl that was belied by the amusement in his eyes. Sherlock gasped, but then twisted out of the hold and pushed up onto his knees.

“Skinny boy? _Skinny boy_?” Sherlock spat.

“That’s what I said. You got a problem with it?”

Sherlock looked at John in shock for a second, but then narrowed his eyes. “Watson?”

“Yeah?”

“I believe the phrase is, 'bring it on.'”

 Sherlock launched himself at John, and the grappling began in earnest. Each struggled for the advantage, each nearly gaining it at times. They rolled and flipped and reached, grunting and laughing and swallowing curses until, suddenly, Sherlock found himself on his back with John straddling him. Sherlock bucked to throw him off, but John just laughed, and, after a brief struggle, managed to pin his wrists to the bed by his head with a shout of victory.

Both were flushed from the exertion, giggling and wheezing. “How’s your reach now, Holmes?” John laughed, looking down at his face with a wide smile. 

Sherlock briefly wriggled beneath him. “Not a fair match, Watson. You’re too compact to get a good hold on.”

 “Hey!” John bounced lightly. “Don’t even try it. You lost. Take it like a man.”

 Sherlock grinned up at him for a moment, but then his grin quickly faded. A brief flash of horror crossed his face.

“All right, John. That’s enough now. “

“Not even close, you wanker. I want an apology.”

“Um, fine.” Sherlock started to struggle against him. “You won fair and square. Now get off.”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock started twisting his arms, but John just tightened the grip on his wrists and held him to the bed more firmly.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Oh for God’s…I’m sorry! I’m sorry in every known language! I’m so very, very sorry, now get _off_!” Sherlock started struggling in earnest. “Please!”

John released his arms and sat back on his heels, confused. “All right, but why…oh.” He made a tiny inquistive wiggle of his hips, grinding down against Sherlock’s pelvis ever so slightly. “ _Oh_.” He stared down Sherlock’s face, which was rapidly becoming a violent shade of red. “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock covered his face with his hands. After a minute, he said softly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t…please, John. Just let me up and we can forget this ever happened. Please.”

John was still looking at his friend in shock. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak several times, before finally, “Sherlock.”

“Please, John.” His voice was muffled by his shaking hands. “Just...leave it. Don’t make me beg.”

“Sherlock, listen to me.”

“John…”

“Please.”

Sherlock was silent, his face still covered, but after a moment he jerked a single nod.

John bit his lower lip and looked away briefly to gather his thoughts. “Is this… is this something you want?”

Sherlock slowly lowered his hands to regard him with caution. His eyes were rimmed with red and shiny with unshed tears.

“Is...what something I want?” he said, with great hesitation.

“Well…um, well, me. To put it plainly.”

Sherlock pulled his hands away and stared up at John in disbelief. He laughed once, a single humorless bark, and gestured down to where their bodies met. “I can hardly deny it, can I?”

 John stared back. “But, I mean, do you… _want_ this?”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open in shock before he snapped it closed. As he swallowed hard, one of the threatening tears escaped his eyes and rolled down to the quilt below. He closed his eyes as in pain.

“Sherlock. Answer me.”

“John…don’t be cruel. Please.”

 John shook his head slowly, raising one hand from the bed to trace his thumb along Sherlock’s faintly quivering lower lip. “Not cruel, I don’t think,” he murmured.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and he looked at John, thunderstruck. “ _Oh_ ,” he breathed.

 John leaned over slowly, stretched his legs out, and carefully pressed his own body against Sherlock’s. “You see, it’s not just you,” he whispered. “I’ve been wanting to...wrestle with you for a long time.” He rolled his hips. “A very long time.”

Sherlock’s eyes were still staring into John’s, but now his face began to glow with growing hope and wonder. His gaze dropped to John’s mouth as John started to lean closer. He moved nearer, slowly, slowly, and Sherlock’s lips parted in anticipation.

Just as their lips were about to touch, John paused. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “John… _please_.”

John smiled softly. “All right, then,” he murmured.

__

Sherlock flopped back onto the vivid, scratchy pillowcase, breathing heavily. “I guess I understand why they’re so sweaty, then.”

John wrapped his arm across Sherlock’s abdomen and nestled into his neck. “That’s just baby oil, I think. I prefer this. More...organic.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock slid his arms around John’s back and smiled at the ceiling. “Do you think _they’re_ rechanneling homosexual tendencies as well?”

John smiled against his skin. “Without a doubt.” He paused. “You might not want to mention that to a fan, though, or you could find yourself on the wrong side of a flying metal chair.” 

“Ah. Noted.”

A few peaceful minutes passed before John spoke again. “You know, I’m surprised you didn’t ask me about the horoscope symbols. That’s something I would’ve expected you'd long ago deleted.”

Sherlock lifted his head to smile down fondly at the blond head that rested over his heart.

“Zodiac Killer, John. Late 1960s and 70s. Northern California. Apparent perpetrator claimed thirty-seven murders, though only seven were confirmed. Two survived. Sloppy.” He yawned then, before lying back on the pillow. “Case was never solved.”

John sighed. “Oh. Right. Serial killer. Of course.” He smiled and nestled further into the hideous polyester monstrosity, content.

**Author's Note:**

> Deepest gratitude to EnduringChill and 221bJen for their beta skills and their willingness to listen to me whine. <3


End file.
